


On Devotion (and other Temptations)

by Rhadamantelope



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (briefly) - Freeform, Book and Show Compliant, Copious amounts of Queen, Extensive time spent researching London on google maps, Flower Language, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Pining, Post-Canon, The Arrangement (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22370026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhadamantelope/pseuds/Rhadamantelope
Summary: Six thousand years in the making, and Crowley can't seem to find the right words to quantify how he feels about Aziraphale.Until maybe a month or so after the world should have ended, that is.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in May, I think? And only just now opted to post it. We just don't know why! And in the meantime I forgot how to write titles and summaries.

There is a particular level of discretion that one must exercise in everyday life, regarding things like spatial awareness, the incitement of potential political revolutions, and just how many kilometers is appropriate to exceed the speed limit by (it’s ten, if you were wondering).

That in mind, another more specific parameter also exists, and that would be spreading your wings out in the shower. Anthony J. Crowley has just disregarded this, forgetting for one ill-fated moment that the human shower in his flat was not built to accommodate roughly thirty feet of ethereal ashen feathers.

When he trudges out, towel around his waist and wings dejectedly folded away in whatever not-space his demonic form resides in, the principality Aziraphale is in the hallway of his apartment. He's been a regular sight at the flat as of late, ever since the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't. It's all as it was before. Almost. The eternal thwarting of wiles has evolved into a game of who can spend the most time at the other's residence, which is not altogether bad.

In one hand, Aziraphale holds a plant mister, and in the other, a book of Shelley’s poetry. His eyes are glued to the latter, his lips forming silently the words of “Hymn to Intellectual Beauty.”

Isn’t that funny, Crowley thinks for a second before Aziraphale looks up, cocks his head and says:

“You don’t look well.”

“What’s that?”

Aziraphale gestures towards his brow, and Crowley mimics the motion, touching his own and wincing as he recalls the brand-new shampoo bottle hitting him in the temple.

“Ow,” he mutters, feeling quite pitiful.

“What happened, exactly..?”

“Oh, you couldn’t hear?”

“No, dear,” Aziraphale turns back to one of the broad-leafed plants momentarily, spritzing it with some water. Crowley bristles as the plant nearly preens, awfully pleased by the positive attention. “I could barely hear my own thoughts over your music.”

Right. The music. He had put The Velvet Underground on, despite the angel’s half-hearted objections.

“Oh, I doubt it was that loud, seeing as you’re still doing some light reading.”

Aziraphale hums and tucks the book under his arm, making his way over to where Crowley stands in the doorway.

“Right, anyway,” Crowley continues. “I was thinking you and I could take a drive on down to the water, have lunch on the Thames and whatnot.”

“Oh? Just the other day you were bemoaning how polluted the river was.”

Crowley shrugs, smiling wryly.

“A change of scenery from old St. James can’t hurt, angel. And I never said I didn’t  _ like _ it.”

Aziraphale smiles at that, and Crowley feels his own smirk broaden at the sight.

“A change of scenery, then,” he says, all of a sudden reaching over to touch the bruise blooming on the side of Crowley’s face. His fingertips are soft against his still-damp skin, not quite finding purchase and certainly not remaining there long enough to feel the heat spread white-hot over the demon’s cheeks.

When Aziraphale withdraws his hand, the fresh traces of pain are no more. His brow creases, eyes travelling down Crowley’s angular face.

“Perhaps you ought to shave.You’ve got a bit of a shadow there.”

Crowley cannot find the words to reply as the angel’s hand leaves his face, but Aziraphale hesitates.

“You don’t have to, of course. I simply--”

“No, no,” Crowley says. He can feel the points of his incisors brush his tongue with an acute prick as he replies, dazed. “I will.”

It’s only as he pulls away that he thinks to ask Aziraphale -- if I nick myself by chance, would you stitch me back up?

He swallows the thought down like cough syrup. It’s sticky.

The Bentley’s tastes have shifted, if only temporarily, from  _ Best of Queen _ to their 1995 album  _ Made in Heaven _ . Crowley isn’t one to argue, but when the title track comes on in the middle of Aziraphale chiding him for taking credit for the Millenium Bridge, it’s hard to focus on the topic at hand.

“...but really now, I don’t know if nudging Sir Caro towards giving his input exactly  _ counts _ on your end,” Aziraphale says, tilting his head to meet Crowley’s sidelong gaze. His brow furrows just a bit, but the corners of his lips twitch upwards. The pink light of the setting sun catches on the curve of his face, the shadows darkening on his dimples.

Oh, Crowley thinks. He’s--

“In  _ front of you _ , dear.” Aziraphale pushes himself back against the seat and gestures out at the road. A pair of university students scramble across the road with a yelp as Crowley swerves -- miraculously, one might say -- out of their path.

“No worries, angel.”

Aziraphale huffs, and Crowley actually taps the brake, slows down to 80km/h. He relaxes at that, still giving Crowley an exasperated look askance before continuing:

“I hope I don’t seem at all ungrateful -- I had a lovely time today, I just don’t know if I’d call a gentle suggestion your idea.”

He smooths back his white-blonde hair, to little avail as the curls pop back up after he runs his hand through them.

_ Made in heaven, made in heaven _

_ It was all meant to be, yeah _

“It’s...the resulting chaos,” Crowley replies, his eyes darting from Aziraphale’s profile to the road and back. 

Aziraphale chuckles. It sounds like a low musical note over the ambient Queen.

“I’ll give you that, then.”

There’s a lull before they pull up in front of the darkened bookshop, as the track trails off and Crowley stops the car. It’s a minute before Aziraphale reaches for the door, and he smiles, half to himself.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. It was a nice day, is all.”

Crowley muses on that, watching Aziraphale fold his coat over one arm. All the days had been nice, that week at least. That being said, it’s not as though he would have minded any rain. Even unseasonal snow or sleet wouldn’t phase him, he supposes as Aziraphale tries passenger side door. Though he never did handle the cold well.

“Um,” says Aziraphale. “The door, Crowley.”

He realizes that his eyes have hooded over, his head lolled to the side just so. He’s been watching Aziraphale attempt to open a locked door for far longer than is appropriate.

“Right, sorry, sorry.”

He fumbles with the driver’s side lock button, pressing it the wrong way. The Bentley stays locked.

Neither one has yet come to the conclusion that either could simply magic it open. Crowley jabs at the lock-unlock button several times before the infernal machine’s door gives way.

Face hot with embarrassment, he turns back to bid Aziraphale a good night.

The angel is stifling a laugh.

“Go on, then,” Crowley grumbles.

“That was rather charming, my dear.” Aziraphale pats him on the arm before getting out, but lingers with a hand on the open door. He beams, his blue eyes meeting Crowley’s in the dimming light. “Do you want to come in? The night is young, as you always say.”

He does say that, sometimes. 

And he does want to join Aziraphale, really. In fact he realizes in that moment that he’d like nothing more than to come inside and never leave, and it’s making his stomach turn in the way it tends to when he’s had a bit too much to drink.

“I -- ah, no, I can’t. I have...things to take care of.” He swallows hard. Aziraphale’s eyebrows quirk upwards, a little sadly. “Sorry, angel.”

“Not to worry,” Aziraphale replies; he’s a little disappointed, Crowley can hear it in the way his voice flattens towards the end. But he recovers quickly, adding: “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

Crowley smiles back at him.

“Yeah, I think I can fit you into my schedule.”

Aziraphale leans back into the car, takes Crowley’s hand off of the gear shift, and presses a feather-light kiss to his knuckles. Crowley is frozen, like that deer in proverbial headlights, his smile still plastered to his face as the angel ducks out.

When the door of the bookshop clicks shut and his hand falls back onto the center console of the car, Crowley presses his forehead hard against the steering wheel.

He snaps, and the passenger door closes, and the car jolts to life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gets some unwarranted questions from a supernatural eleven-year-old. Aziraphale bemoans the Them's adherence to school chaperone policies.

The thing about being on the same side is that it makes it almost too easy to admit you’re in love with someone.

Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley has ever done so out loud, though the thought is always there. Has been for thousands of years, really, but left to their own devices the thought of it all becomes terrifyingly real.

Crowley considers this as he taps his fingers on the steering wheel, just missing a red light as he speeds through Soho. Being wordlessly in love with Aziraphale is one thing, certainly, but having even the very  _ seed _ , the very _ molecule _ of the thought spending the rest of their indefinitely long lives together feels like a whole different animal.

Would it be so bad, though?

He doesn’t have quite enough time to ponder that, as he’s just parked rather unevenly along the curb outside A.Z. Fell & Co’s Booksellers.

_ And it's a long hard struggle _ , Freddie croons before he switches the car off.

_ But you can always depend on me _

_ And if you're ever in trouble - hey _

_ You know where I will be _

“Quiet,” Crowley hisses, and gets out.

He’s not sure what he truly wants to say when he walks through the door -- “Let’s go off together”? Perhaps not -- but any intelligent thought fizzles out as the bell above the entrance chimes and four little heads turn to face him.

“Hi, Mr. Crowley,” says the Antichrist, Destroyer of Worlds. The rest of the Them give a series of jovial waves; Pepper’s comes delayed as she puts down the antique copy of  _ Frankenstein _ she’s been poring over.

“Um.” Crowley looks them over. “Hello. What are you lot doing in...London?”

“Well,” says Adam. “We were on a field trip, see. But, we weren’t particularly interested past the bit where we saw the ravens at the Tower of London. So, here we are.”

“Uh-huh.”

“The ravens were fun,” adds Brian. “Big loud blokes.”

From behind a bookshelf comes the familiar voice of an exasperated angel.

“And here I thought you four were -- accompanied!”

Aziraphale emerges, a tin of biscuits in one hand and a concerned look on his face. When he turns to Crowley, though, his visage relaxes into an easy smile. Crowley feels the inclination to wave, like a shy stranger on a train.

"We'll be back by lunch," Adam says, quite matter-of-factly. "Our teachers won't notice, and Wensleydale is quite good with the map."

On cue, the slight bespectacled one holds up a battered tourist's map of London.

"Oh," sighs Aziraphale, not one to argue at length with the Antichrist's chaperone-persuading and Wensleydale's navigating. "I suppose. But by 11:30, you must be on your way."

He sets down the biscuits and sidles across the room to greet Crowley properly. It's awkward, as he puts one hand on Crowley's shoulder from a distance that could be closed all to easily if he were to just  _ lean in, angel  _ \--

"So glad you could fit me into your very busy schedule, my dear," he says with an all too wicked grin for an angel. Crowley smiles in return, though he can feel it manifest as more of an uncomfortable baring of snake-like fangs than anything.

Aziraphale doesn't seem to notice. But behind him, Adam turns around, raises one eyebrow at Crowley with a look that feels uncharacteristically  _ knowing _ for someone his age.

Then again, human as he may seem...

In the other room, the kettle sounds off. Aziraphale's hand slips off Crowley's shoulder like rain down a windowpane, and he trots off to attend to the tea. 

“--and I should think that girls would get more credit for the invention of science fiction,” Pepper chirps, having finished her perusal of Mary Shelley’s  _ Frankenstein _ just in time to head out. “In fact, I’d say we might be the best at it.”

“Certainly, certainly,” says Aziraphale, who indeed agrees, but also knows that it’s 11:35 and that the Them really should be heading back to whatever part of London the rest of their class is wandering about in.

Crowley, now leaning against the sturdy chestnut bookshelf that houses Aziraphale’s books of prophecy, has decided that he rather likes Pepper. She asks the most questions, and when those questions aren’t about whether he thinks Lilith gets a bad rap or if large-scale conflict is inherently evil -- his answers to those being a succinct “yes, maybe, have another biscuit” -- she’s a riot.

“Maybe  _ I’ll _ be a famous science fiction writer,” she muses.

“Just last week you said you wanted to be a neuroscientist,” Wensleydale says, unfolding his trust map with a flourish. Pepper shrugs.

“I can be both. ‘Sides, I have time to decide.” She turns back to Aziraphale. “Mr. Fell, will you sell my books at your shop?”

“Um.” Aziraphale is checking his watch. “Maybe. We can iron out the details...another time, perhaps?”

It’s during this exchange that Crowley feels a tug on the sleeve of his jacket. This is a most peculiar sensation, as Crowley quite rarely has his sleeves pulled on, much less by the mild-mannered Antichrist.

“Adam Young,” he says, a bit dumbfounded. “Shouldn’t you be on your way?”

“Suppose so,” Adam replies. He looks off to one side, then the other, an inquiry perched on the tip of his tongue and just dying to take off. Crowley sighs.

“ _ What _ may I do for you?”

Adam leans in, indicating some very serious matter at hand. Crowley glances over at Aziraphale and the other three, and inclines his head.

“You and Mr. Fell...the two of you look at each other in an interesting way,” he says in the way a scientist would record the behavior of a lab mouse. Crowley’s eyes widen behind his dark glasses, and he feels his throat tighten.

Oh, he is  _ not _ getting called out on this by an eleven-year-old.

“Alright,” is all he can manage. What is he to say to that?  _ Yes, Adam. We’re in love. I think. _

“It just seems nice,” Adam continues. “But, you seem scared. Are you scared of him being an angel, and all that?”

The question is so sincere, Crowley has to straighten back up. He looks back to the occupied Aziraphale, who catches his eye and smiles, somewhat helpless in the face of Pepper’s sudden authorial aspirations.

“No, no,” he says. “We’re on the same side, remember?”

“Then everything should be fine, right?”

Wensleydale peers at the map, holds it up for Aziraphale to take a look at. The angel squints at it, his nose wrinkling in the way it does when he’s focused on something. He points at some unknown point on the paper and clasps his hands together, satisfied with his work and ready to delve into some “fun fact” about wherever he’s pointed them to.

Crowley can practically see the halo glowing above his head.

"He feels the same way about you, I'd think," Adam adds.

"How's that?"

Adam puts a hand to his chin, trying to form the words properly.

“Well,” he says, in the way that eleven year-old boys with a rough thesis tend to do. “Six thousand some-odd years, that’s a long time to know someone. And, if you know someone so well, you ought to understand a bit about some of their strong feelings. If that makes sense.”

Crowley nods; he can’t argue with that. He just wishes --

“I’m sure there’s some way to tell. I know my mum does a deep sigh whenever she’s looking at a thing or a place she  _ really _ likes. And when it’s something like, a box of chocolates or a hat, sometimes my dad comes home with it. ‘Course some things we can’t afford, like a fancy vacation or whatnot. Then my dad maybe gets her something else. Flowers, or --”

“Flowers?” Crowley interrupts. Adam blinks, a sly smile forming on his face.

“Yeah. You know, you should get Mr. Fell flowers. Maybe that will help you tell him how you feel. Unless he’s allergic -- daisies make mum sneeze like no tomorrow, ‘s not pretty.”

Pepper gestures wildly for Adam to join them, and Aziraphale holds the door open for the Them to head out. He nods at each of them as they file out, an avuncular air about him.

“The ravens were lovely, by the by,” Adam says before jogging over to the door. He grins at Crowley as he scoots over the welcome mat. “Have a good day Mr. Fell, Mr. Crowley! I’ll tell Dog you said hi!”

The door chimes as Aziraphale shuts it behind the four, and he leans against the glass, gaze fixed on Crowley. He smiles.

“Whatever were you and Adam so deep in conversation about?”

Crowley swallows hard, feels his face warm.

“Oh. Well. Just...demonic...things.”

And here he’s supposed to be the universe’s greatest liar, its greatest tempter. Eve was so easily persuaded; there was barely any lying at all, just “tree of knowledge, eat the apple, you’ll have knowledge,” which was certainly the truth. And it was more persuasion than temptation, if he’s honest with himself.

But oh, angel, he thinks. Could I ever tempt you to spend the rest of eternity with me?

He frowns. That’s a given, though, isn’t it? He stares down at the dull red and gold carpet that covers the bookshop floor, focusing in on a paisley pattern that lies between the tips of his boots.

He doesn’t notice as Aziraphale makes his way over, tilts his chin up with one finger and loops his arm through Crowley’s, all in one fluid, perfect motion.

“Shall we talk about it over lunch?” he asks. Crowley feels a smile creep across his own face as the angel leans into him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley enjoy their time at an art museum. Crowley does not enjoy his time at the florist. He really, really doesn't.

While Crowley had been asleep for a good portion of the 19th century, one thing he took away from Victorian England was their preoccupation with flowers having  _ meaning _ \-- as if everything didn’t have a  _ meaning _ behind it. He had found himself hissing in the middle of the flower shop in Islington, scoring him an odd look from the girl behind the counter. The poor thing had checked him out without a word, though, despite his muttered threats to some of the lavender roses that mocked him in the front corner.

Love at first sight. Honestly.

He’s got a vicegrip on the bouquet as he walks out, a silent promise that  _ so help me if you lot so much as wilt you’re in for a world of pain _ . As he strides down the sidewalk to where he’s parked the car -- just a few inches too far from the curb, what else is new -- the midday sun catches on something shiny in a storefront.

Crowley knows better than to turn and look; he’s in a hurry, after all, since he’s asked Aziraphale to meet him near the University College museums and he’s already running a few minutes behind. And he’s not a bloody  _ magpie _ .

But magpie or not, he spares a glance. It's a jewelry shop, because of course it is. Antiques, all of them shockingly beautiful. There's a shelf of rings front and center, and his eyes travel over to a red gold band, with a sapphire inlaid in it. Crowley's throat tightens, as does his grip on the base of the bouquet, the protective paper and blue ribbon crinkling under his now-clammy palms.

He lets out a shuddering breath before the saleswoman just beyond the window can catch his eye, and continues back to the car.

Red aster, white gladiolus, purple heathers. They had stuck some ivy leaves in as well, at Crowley’s barely-audible request.

He keeps shooting the flowers withering glares as he waits by the car outside the UCL art museum. They’re not as subservient as the plants he has at home, either because they’ve been cut or because they know he’s picked them out for some significance.

The latter thought makes him queasy, and he holds the bouquet up an inch from his face.

“Don’t go getting any ideas. One petal out of place and you’ll be down the drain before Aziraphale can even get a glance at you.”

Nothing. He sighs, leans on the hood of the Bentley and counters the strange look a passing university-age couple spares him with his own scowl.

_ Undying devotion, infatuation and remembrance, admiration. Eternity, fidelity, friendship. _

Crowley bristles. He only has himself to blame for this, for his only takeaway from the Victorian era being romantic flower language, for being too scared to say these things out loud for fear that he might shout it. For perhaps the lurking fear that he would be met with simply “oh, my dear boy, not like  _ that _ …”

“Ah! Crowley!”

He looks up. Across the street, standing before the entrance to the quad, is Aziraphale, looking ever so summery. His overcoat is nowhere in sight, and he’s rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. It’s a rare sight, seeing him so...casual. But it’s nice, and Crowley has to swallow a deep, cliched sigh as the angel outstretches an arm to wave him over.

Crowley taps the Bentley’s hood, and it locks itself as he jogs across the street. Traffic is slow on Gower Street -- or at least it is as he crosses.

“Sorry, I know I’m a bit late,” says Aziraphale. “I just couldn’t get this one woman out of the bookshop. It says quite clearly on the door I close up as early as two on some days, and you’d think that people would respect that…”

“Yeah, you’d think.” Crowley grins. “Forget your coat, angel?”

“Hm? Oh, no, I just -- it’s a bit warm out.”

“You can just...not be warm, can’t you?”

Aziraphale shrugs. Crowley doesn’t know why he’s on about this, anyhow.

“I’m trying something new, I suppose. You’re always telling me to do that, aren’t you?”

Crowley chuckles.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.” There’s a beat as Aziraphale’s eyes travel to the flowers at Crowley’s side. Crowley’s arm springs up, bringing them a bit too close to Aziraphale’s face for comfort. He steps back, drawing in a breath and offering them up properly. “They’re -- they’re for you.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale takes them gingerly, his hands brushing against Crowley’s knuckles as he does so. The demon feels sparks travel up his arms. “Oh, Crowley, they’re lovely. You really shouldn’t have.”

"Sure I did, angel."

Aziraphale looks them over, his expression softening as he runs one hand over the spindly, featherlike petals of the asters. His bright blue eyes flick back up, meeting Crowley's shaded yellow ones with a look of such utter endearment that Crowley has to look down at the pavement for a moment.

Has Aziraphale always looked at him like...that? He doesn't want to think of all the times he may have missed it.

"You're not...you're not allergic, right?"

Adam's words echo in his head after he repeats them, and Crowley winces internally. Aziraphale just laughs, and his hand moves from the aster petals to Crowley's lapel. And the demon's heart pounds against the inside of his ribs, as if straining for contact.

"No, dear. I'm not," Aziraphale says. "Was the art museum a front, then? For giving me these lovely things?"

Crowley, now coming to the realization that they've been standing outside on the sidewalk for some time now, eyes the quad and the columns of the building at its center.

"Would I lie to you, angel?"

They keep coming back to John Flaxman's "Saint Michael Overcoming Satan." Both must see the playful irony in it, but Crowley is the first to nod towards the marble-scaled serpent coiled up Saint Michael’s leg. He makes a soft hissing noise besides Aziraphale’s ear, low enough so no other museum patrons can hear, loud enough so Aziraphale jumps a bit and elbows him in the side.

"They never seem to get your face right in these," the angel murmurs.

"Michael doesn't look quite right herself."

"Hmm. Wrong Michael, dear."

He feels Aziraphale put an arm around his waist, and almost involuntarily loops his around Aziraphale's shoulders. It comes naturally, he finds, and he thinks that he could stay like this, well, forever.

And then he looks at the statues, thinks of those stuffy archangels up in Heaven, and snorts.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Just...thinking how ridiculous it would be to invite Michael --"  _ To our wedding _ , is how he wants to end the joke, but his mind stumbles over it before it can reach his tongue. "To dinner."

Aziraphale laughs at that. Crowley can feel his shiver of laughter against his chest like a vibrato, and it's as if they're the only two in the museum, laughing at a biblical statue for no reason other than a mutual acquaintance.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anathema plays counselor to Crowley's yearning issues.   
> Should she do that? Probably not.  
> Does she do it anyway? Well.

"I thought you said that you weren't a devil worshipper."

Crowley's found himself at Jasmine Cottage in Tadfield, for some reason or another. The American girl, Anathema, is a bright one and always has some esoteric brand of blueberry tea on hand. No doubt with some kind of alternative-medicine-aura-renewal promises made on its box, but he doesn't dwell on it.

The boyfriend is there as well, fiddling with a broken pot and some tacky glue on the couch. He's fine, Crowley supposes, if not a little skittish and underwhelming. He likes his glasses frames, though.

"I'm not," Anathema says flatly. She sets down her cup on its saucer and adjusts her spectacles. "I'm simply  _ asking _ if it's worth it to make any sort of summoning circle --"

"It's not. Trust me."

He takes a sip of his tea and eyes her over the rim of the cup. Anathema takes her glasses off, folds them and neatly places them on the wooden tabletop beside her.

"What about...you know what, no, nevermind."

Well, now she's piqued his curiosity.

"Do spit it out, Miss Device."

"I was just going to say, your angel husband, he was mentioning something about a circle a while back --"

Crowley inhales just a touch too hard, and feels the tea narrowly miss his windpipe.

"Sorry, what?" he chokes out. Anathema blinks.

"What?"

"My angel  _ what _ ?"

Newt turns around at that as well.

"I thought you two were, well, a...thing," he says.

Crowley is at a loss for words. Anathema interjects:

"God, I'm sorry. Are you guys having issues?"

She laces her fingers together, brow creasing like a concerned psychiatrist. Or perhaps a police interrogator.

"I --  _ no _ ," Crowley hisses. He shifts, all of a sudden uncertain of himself, and takes another sip of tea. "Nothing's wrong. Not at all. Nothing's changed between us."

Anathema narrows her eyes. She had better not be reading his aura or whatever it is she does.

"You'd like it to, though?" she says, before the silence can get too uncomfortable.

Rather involuntarily, Crowley sinks lower in his seat.

"I'm not talking about this."

"Why not?"

"Why n -- because it'sss not your business." He bites his stupid forked tongue. She's restraining herself from smiling, he can tell, and he scowls.

"So," she says, idly unfolding her glasses and rubbing at a spot on the lenses. "What's the problem? Do you want him to move in, do you need more space, less space…?"

Crowley opens and closes his mouth like a fish dropped into the dry hull of a boat.

"No…?"

"So, none of those things."

"No. Also, did you really think we were…"

Anathema's mouth quirks up into a smile. She raises a finger like a Renaissance scientist just coming upon some gravitational breakthrough.

"So you'd like to be, then?"

Crowley groans.

"Oh come on, it's not so bad. You guys have known each other how long?"

"Six thousand years, give or take."

"So," Newt says from the couch. "How long out of the six thousand have you wanted to, uh. Tie the knot I guess?"

What Newt doesn't quite understand is that for at least five thousand of those six thousand years (perhaps minus a few weeks, accounting for contemplation and the time Crowley slept through a sizable portion of the late 1800s) Crowley has been unwaveringly taken with Aziraphale. That being said, the technical answer to his question is "roughly a week." What Crowley responds with is:

"I'm not good with numbers, Private Pulsifer."

Newt and Anathema share a confounded glance.

"You should just...ask," Newt says plaintively. "It can't hurt. I can't imagine he'd hang out with you all this time and not, you know, feel similarly."

He picks a bit of glue off his hand and adds:

"And, er, not to nitpick but technically I'm an ex-Witchfinder-Private."

Crowley rolls his eyes.

"Maybe just  _ ask _ is a little bit of a...casual way of putting it," Anathema says. "But I think it's the right idea. Take a leap of faith, I guess?"

Crowley wants to roll his eyes again, but considers that. Then, he pauses.

"This isn't any one of your... prophecies, is it?"

"Nope," says Anathema. "Those are done. And we burned the sequel."

"Huh." That feels a bit sacreligious. He can appreciate that.

Crowley reaches over and taps his finger on the edge of the mostly-empty teacup. It's got flowers on them, so purple they're nearly black. The petals droop over one another to form a rough outline of a skull at the equator of the cup. He downs the rest of the tea 

A leap of faith. A weird way to put it, but somehow it makes sense.

"Oh," Newt adds over the back of the couch. "I just remembered, Sergeant Shadwell is legally ordained. If you're interested."

Crowley lets out a hacking cough as the tea goes down the wrong pipe. Again. Human bodies and their damned pipes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure, I do firmly believe that Anathema and Crowley have occasional get-togethers where she drills him on occult stuff and he entertains her, if a little condescendingly.


	5. Chapter 5

Demons are not creatures of faith. In fact, they are by loose definition, the exact opposite.

Crowley has always gone about his wiles in an unconventional manner, though. Having faith -- not in the Almighty, but in Aziraphale and, hopefully a little in himself -- shouldn't be an issue.

He's been driving circles around South London for the past twenty minutes. The Globe has passed him by at least three times now, just enough for him to think about the prospect of taking Aziraphale to a show for the occasion of asking him The Question to End The Arrangement (as he had come to call it in his head). The more he dwells on it, the more the intricacies start to rear their awkward heads: he'll be fidgeting the whole show through and oh, what if they're putting on  _ Hamlet _ ? He doesn't know if he can sit through one of the Bard's dreary ones again.

He makes a turn down the nearest bridge, crosses over the Thames as "Heaven for Everyone" starts up on the radio.

He heaves a sigh, and turns towards Islington again, his mind drifting to how shameful it was, really, that humanity had since lost the secret to forging Damascus steel.


	6. Chapter 6

They drink well into the night at Aziraphale's shop, and Aziraphale sits comfortably close to him on the couch, paging through an old Jane Austen on his lap.

Crowley stretches his right arm out and brings it back down so as to just gently drape over Aziraphale's shoulders.

"Which one is that?" he asks.

"Hm?"

"The...the book." His free hand drifts to the pocket of his jacket, hesitating on the outline of the ring inside.

"Oh!" Aziraphale gives him a lopsided grin, reaches up and slides the sunglasses off his nose. He holds up the book, thumb keeping his place midway through. "Pride and Prejudice, my dear."

"Ah."

He watches Aziraphale fold the glasses, reach over his lap and place them next to the glass of Riesling Crowley had abandoned for the time being.

Over Aziraphale's shoulder is the bouquet from the week prior, sitting proud atop the desk in a green glass vase. The flowers look as new as the day they first bloomed, like they had been cut just a minute before.

"Taking good care of those," Crowley murmurs. Aziraphale glances over at the flowers, still smiling.

"Oh, yes. You're so very thoughtful, my dear."

Crowley scoffs, looks away as Aziraphale leans into him.

"I really do mean it." Aziraphale seems to sober up a bit, and places his free hand over Crowley's. "You're not driving back tonight, are you? It's terribly late."

Crowley smiles, forgetting all about the ring for the night. He inclines his head with a soft laugh at the angel's concern.

"I'll stay if you'll have me. I'll even sleep on the couch."

"Nonsense." Aziraphale's strikingly dark eyebrows knit together over sky blue eyes in mock offense. "I don't keep the bed made for myself, dear."

Of course not, Crowley thinks. Of course not.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley resolves to asking The Question -- it's really a matter of whether it goes how he anticipates, though.

Crowley kicks himself for the next day. Leap of faith, he thinks. No more complicated and certainly no more dangerous than duping Heaven and Hell after botching the Apocalypse.

He taps the contact for Aziraphale on his cell and drops it on the Bentley's passenger seat.

"A.Z. Fell, how may I help y--"

"Aziraphale, it's me."

"Oh! Crowley, dear, long time no talk. Did you forget something here?"

"No, no, I…" He pulls up to the curb beside his own flat, even managing to park perfectly straight beside it. "Angel, d'you want to do dinner at the Ritz tonight?"

There's a spot of silence, and Crowley sinks a fang into his lip in pained anticipation.

"That sounds lovely," Aziraphale says.

"I'll see you there, then?"

"Oh, absolutely."

"Great, great, great." Crowley pats his jacket down until he feels the ring under his palm. He grins, though his hands feel clammy at the thought. "I'll, ah, make that reservation then. Seven o'clock, don't be late."

"When have you ever known me to be?"

"Well, the art museum, for one."

He hears Aziraphale sputter over the line, something about customers, customers,  _ always _ those stubborn people with their books.

"Seven o'clock, angel," he says again, voice lifting playfully.

"Yes, yes."

Crowley leans back in his seat as Aziraphale bids him adieu, exhales hard and crosses his arms over his chest.

_ Born -- to love you _ , chants the car radio. And again,  _ born -- to love you _

_ Every single day of my life _

He can't bring himself to ask the Question during dinner. There's too many people and the words aren't coming to him and the band is too loud and I mean  _ really _ it would be such a hassle to interrupt the meal anyway, wouldn't it?

So Crowley settles to shift in his seat throughout the night, making idle conversation with Aziraphale as they always do when they go to dinner. And everything is fine, everything is as it should be, and maybe, he thinks, there's no real reason to  _ change _ any of this --

He puts his fork down a little too hard as he pushes that thought out of his head. No, after dinner, then.

Aziraphale looks up at him.

"Is everything alright?"

"What? Oh, yes, just fine. Think I left a window open at the apartment, is all."

"Quite understandable. At least it's a nice night." Aziraphale sets an elbow down on the cream-colored tablecloth and gestures with his spoon. "You know, I was actually thinking -- shall we take a walk through St. James after dinner? It would be a shame to let this weather go to waste and --"

"Yes," Crowley says, his heart leaping to his throat at the opportunity. "Yes, that sounds divine, angel."

They very rarely see the park past five on any given day; Crowley can't recall the last time they've gone for a night stroll but makes a mental note to suggest it more often. St. James's Park is nearly empty, save for a few straggling ducks and a gaggle of teenagers that pass them by without so much as a second glance. It's peaceful, and Crowley can almost ignore the urgent pounding of his pulse in the gray-blue of the evening.

"You know," says Aziraphale as they near the water. "When we were here a few weeks ago there was that young couple taking photos. Do you remember that?"

Crowley frowns.

"Can't say I do, angel."

"Yes, yes there was a man and a woman, they had just gotten married!"

"O-oh." He hopes the shiver that goes through his body isn't too noticeable.

"It was quite lovely," Aziraphale continues, looking out over the glassy pond. "And I remember thinking how nice that must be, you know? What a wonderful show of your love for another person that is."

"Y-y-you know it's funny you should mention that…" Crowley sifts through his empty left pocket, then the right, feeling around for the ring. Big speeches be damned, he concedes.

"I couldn't get it off my mind, really. And I couldn't get you off my mind either -- well, I guess that's to be expected, but, anyway."

"Aziraphale," Crowley says, looking down at the ring before clasping it between his hands. "I don't...what exactly --"

Aziraphale reaches into the pocket of his vest with a wide-eyed smile and a sigh. The moonlight catches on the small trinket he pulls out, and Crowley can barely catch his breath before the angel, like a great off-balance swan landing in the water, lowers himself onto one knee.

"I...I know the whole kneeling thing might be kind of cliché," he says. "But I have to know --"

"Angel."

"Anthony J. Crowley, will you --"

" _ Angel _ ."

"Will you marry me?"

Crowley inhales, exhales in an attempt to process the whole thing, but the breath comes out as a rattling hiss, in time with the trembling of his body. He tilts his head upwards as his eyes well up despite his most valiant efforts.

"Oh," Aziraphale rises to his feet, his free hand moving to grasp Crowley's upper arm. "I...I'm so sorry, I thought --"

"Yes," Crowley manages to croak. He levels his gaze with Aziraphale's, despite the tears of disbelief and, frankly, frustration that run hot down his cheeks.

"What?"

"I said, yes," he groans. "It's all I  _ want _ , Aziraphale, you ssstupid angel. All I've wanted for -- for ages. I just…"

He heaves another shaky, snake-hiss sigh. Aziraphale trades out the ring for a handkerchief, and removes Crowley's sunglasses with gentle hands. He presses the handkerchief to the curve of the demon's damp cheekbone, and Crowley leans into it.

"Did I...did I do something wrong?" Aziraphale asks. "You can tell me, you know. If there's something wrong, or if you aren't ready, anything really."

"No," Crowley sighs, feeling quite childish over how frustrated he is that he's been beat to the punch. Thwarted, so to speak. "You didn't do a damn thing wrong. I guess I just...well."

He opens his hands before Aziraphale, showing him the ring that, if he was being honest with himself, he was quite proud to have gotten. It felt right for the angel's complexion.

"Wanted to ask you first. Surprise you."

"Oh, Crowley…"

"But I'm not...I'm not mad. Just didn't know what I'd do if you...well, y'know."

He sniffs, and Aziraphale, with his hand pressed against Crowley's cheek, laughs. It's still the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.

"You still can, you know," Aziraphale whispers.

"Do what?"

"Propose to me."

"Oh, you don't have to pity me like that," says Crowley. Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. "Plus, I couldn't steal your thunder like that, angel."

"I insist that you do, actually."

His throat tightens, threatening to bring on the waterworks again, but he nods, a little frantically for his own tastes. He holds up the ring, meeting Aziraphale’s gaze before clearing his throat.

“Aziraphale,” he says, clearer than he expected. “Angel of the Eastern Gate, will you do me the great honor of…”

Thunder rumbles, somewhere off in the distance.

“Go on,” Aziraphale says, quiet in the still of the spring night.

“Will you be my husband?” he asks. “Because I want nothing more than to be yours.”

Aziraphale doesn’t miss a beat.

“Yes. A thousand times yes, dear boy.”

Before Crowley can even offer to put the ring on him, Aziraphale reaches out with both hands, pulling him face-first into a kiss.

It takes him a second, but Crowley finds his footing, tilting his head in and wrapping his arms around Aziraphale. It feels like they’re there for hours, until it doesn’t. Aziraphale pulls away, somewhat regretfully, to look up at the night sky.

And then the rain starts. Slow and cool, like a mist as Aziraphale’s eyes return to Crowley’s and he strokes the crest of his brow. Then it picks up, and Crowley can feel it soaking his nice blazer -- one he had bought for the occasion, really.

“I guess we should be going,” says Aziraphale. His voice is tinged with giddiness, and his hands rest warm upon Crowley’s damp shoulders. He flicks a drenched lock of white hair off his face. “The rain, it’s really quite...something.”

Crowley thinks back to that day in the Garden. He thinks of Aziraphale holding one white, pristine wing over him as the storm closed in, and he turns, lacing an arm around his waist. And in the low light of the moon and the street lamps, Crowley stretches a pair of ethereal wings out, resting one over Aziraphale’s head to keep the rain at bay.

“You don’t have to, dear boy. The car isn’t that far.”

The soft wind rustles through his feathers. As they walk, Crowley presses the ring into Aziraphale’s hand, curling his fingers around it.

“Just think of it as returning the favor, my angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I will say that I wrote this all in a single document so. apologies if the splitting of the chapters seems off. I had a good time writing it, however, and I'm genuinely surprised I haven't written anything for Good Omens previously esp considering it is...literally my favorite book. 
> 
> Anyway! follow me on twitter @otasunes or on twitter at exctinctionvortex if you wanna talk gomens or literally anything else.


	8. Epilogue: On Pettiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pair of office workers commiserate over a misplaced wedding invite.

The road to Hell is not paved with good intentions. It’s more of a fungus-covered sidewalk covered in potholes, which leads into the dingy abysmal office spaces.

It’s during a bored perusal of Hastur’s weekly report -- rife with commas and strange turns of phrase -- that Beelzebub hears the frantic tapping of dress shoes down the halls. Not the scuffed rotten-leather second-rate thrift store kind you find in Hell, either.

“Did you  _ know _ about this?”

Beelzebub takes their time looking up from the report, drops it down on the table and crosses their arms. Before them, the archangel Gabriel stands tapping his foot, strikingly out of place in his gainsboro overcoat and white turtleneck. In one hand, he has a piece of paper that Beelzebub can see in the low light is shaking with the archangel’s own frustration.

“About what.”

Gabriel tosses the paper down onto the demon lord’s desk with a huff. It’s an invitation, on thick ivory cardstock. A wedding invitation, to be precise. As much as Beelzebub hates the whole ordeal, they have to admit the font is quite nice to look at.

“They’re getting  _ married _ ,” Gabriel hisses, pointing at the names on the card. Beelzebub sneers down at the gold letters that spell out  _ Misters A.Z. Fell and Anthony J. Crowley _ .

“So they are.” Beelzebub slides the invite back towards Gabriel. “You can leave now.”

“And they didn’t  _ invite _ me!”

Beelzebub blinks.

“Why d’you care?”

“Well,” Gabriel makes a vague hand gesture. “I don’t.”

“Great. Then leave.”

Gabriel shifts, but doesn't quite turn to leave.

" _ Yeszzz _ ?"

"It's just -- I  _ like _ weddings, you know. I've been to my fair share. I...I could write a great speech. Got it all in my head." Gabriel laughs in that humorless way that angels tend to. Or at least, Beelzebub thinks it's humorless; they've never really found any of the angels to be funny whether they're trying or not.

That Aziraphale is a strange one, though. Maybe the closest to bearable, but they've chalked it up to him hanging around a demon since the beginning of whenever. Figures.

"Why are you telling me thizz?" they ask flatly, turning back to the tower of papers on their desk. Out of the corner of their eye, they can practically see Gabriel ruffling his half-metaphorical feathers.

"I'm just thinking out loud," he says, indignant. "You don't take any offense to this? Not even a little bit?"

Beelzebub considers that. Would they enjoy attending the serpent of Eden's wedding to...the angel of the Eastern Gate? Absolutely not. It sounds a dreadful, sappy affair to them. 

Though the lack of a mocking invite sent down to their circle of Hell on Crowley's part does seem out of character. They shrug.

"Szzuppose we could do something about that," they say. Gabriel nods curtly.

"Yes. Definitely. Glad we're on the same page. What I'd suggest --"

"A joint gift."

"Sorry?"

"Szzomething they'll never use. Combined effort of two parties, yet minimal effort on both parts." At Gabriel's blank expression, they sigh and add: "It'zz very inzulting. Ezpecially since the idea was Crowley'zz to begin with. I think."

Gabriel claps his hands together, then points in Beelzebub's direction. He grins, though the demon lord knows he doesn't fully grasp the concept (honestly, neither does Beelzebub, not really).

"Awesome. Excellent. A joint gift, that's...yeah." He moves out towards the doorway of the office. "Diabolical. Or divine, or whatever we want to call it. I'm taking credit for this one upstairs, by the way."

"Szzee if I care."

The archangel and the demon lord settle on a set of six plastic wine glasses with novelty fruit illustrations printed on them. They're rather frequently used, especially by Aziraphale, who once thought the idea of a joint gift quite a thoughtful gesture.


End file.
